Smoke on the Water
by SamDeanBobbyCas
Summary: In the Winchester's time of grieving, Bobby Singer finds a strange new case for them. When the brothers arrive with Castiel at their aid to the strange new predicament, they meet a strange British man with a blue box and a bow tie, and two odd companions that follow him. But it's not the Doctor that truly bothers him. It's that crack in the wall.
1. Fell on Black Days

The silver handle squeaked as Dean turned on the shower, the small spots of rust smudging as his hands slid off. He turned to face the cloudy, dirty, mirror in Bobby's old bathroom. He stripped off his greenish army jacky, throwing it aside until I hit the bathroom door. He stripped from the flannel he was wearing to reveal a gray t-shirt that hugged around his body. He stopped, placing his left arm and his blood covered right arm on the side of the sink counter. He leaned in close to look at his reflection. His green eyes were filled with exhaustion and grief. His mouth and mustache were uneven and unshaven. His face was greasy and covered in sweat and dirt. He sniffed.

Dean's head hurt.

He wanted to reach out and punch the mirror where his face was. He would've. If it wasn't Bobby's mirror and if he wasn't so tired, then yeah, he would hit it. He would slam his hardened fist into it with such force that spiderwebs of white cracks would appear from his land, and an area of blood from his fist would appear. But he didn't. He simply reach his hands behind his shirt collar and yanked it off, appearing the muscular form ahead of him. He sat on the closed toilet behind him and untied his combat boots, and through them toward the door, then slipping his socks off. Then, he undid his zipper and pulled his jeans down, prying them off of his ankles and slipping hem away. Then he took off the last layer and stepped into the shower.

Dean didn't close his eyes as the hot water and steam ran off of his face and dripped from his lashes. The blood on his hands didn't come off. He almost choked. Cried, even. He almost let out a small whimper when he picked up a washer and began to scrub absently at the blood. It didn't come off. _Three days. _He reminded himself. The blood had been soaked on his hands for three days, because he hadn't showered since…

He didn't even want to think about it. But since Bobby had shoved his ass in the bathroom and told him "Don't come out 'til you don't stink like horsecrap!" So, it seemed he had no choice. Even Cas had taken a shower. There days of grieving, and everyone had done an even share of it. But no one was more upset than Dean. No one.

Finally, the blood began to to slick off of his arms in a solute of shower water. It slid down to the bottom of the tub and dripped toward the drain. He watched it all the way as it went, as if he were finally letting go for the last time. Images flashed through his mind. Images which he didn't want to see. He closed his eyes as the flashes became more rapid and detailed, the memories fresh and raw and pounding in his head. Opening his eyes again, the last slip of blood disappeared beneath the drain.

Gone.

He ran his fingers through his hair as more soft water washed over his head and covered his body, making the same, repetitive motion of rain that would slack down on the roof, or the same sound like waves streaming and carving out the same sand. He sighed as he spit out the remaining water in his mouth. Then, he continued to wash up until he was squeaky.

* * *

><p>Sam smiled weakly as Dean leaned back on the pale granite counters Bobby's kitchen, new clothes and certainly smelling a lot better. The small grin vanished as soon as Dean held the Jack by the tip of the bottle as he poured it into a class with no ice and began chugging it.<p>

Drinking would do his brother no good. All doubt to the statement lost, Sam was concerned for his brother. Dean drank down the last swallow of the amber, swirling liquid and went for another fifth of whiskey. Sam opened his mouth to speak, but quickly closed it in his attempt to show compassion toward his broken brother.

In the past three days of sleeping at Bobby's house, Sam had noticed different things about his brother. Although he was now cleanly shaven in new clothes and smelt a whole lot better, Sam could tell that his brother was not okay. He barely sleep, saw more from the bottom of his bottle than he did a decent meal which he actually ate. He did lay down in the bed across from Sam's and he lay quietly doing nothing but Sam could tell that he wasn't sleeping. He got some sleep, but it was only a short five or ten minutes as he had been jolted awake, sitting strait up swiftly, panting as a light layer of sweat covered his skin as it buzzed, his green eyes shining through the dark because they were so lit with a strange mixture of fear and grief. This happened often. And when it did, he normally went downstairs to get his dose of liquor before returning to his bed where he would spend the longest hours of wakefulness until dawn came. He would repeat the same routine- waking up, flopping on the couch, doing nothing- not even eating. The only time he left the house would be when he went to work on the car.

Sam noticed all of these things. Though he acted like he didn't see, he so desperately wanted to reach out to his brother. Just get him to at least say something, _anything. _And though they had suffered a great loss, Sam didn't just lose them, he lost part of his brother.

Dean waltzed into the living room where Bobby had been snoozing away in his wheelchair. He sat back in a chair, the creaking sound waking the old bear from his snoring. Bobby grumbled with tiredness, as he had probably fallen asleep watching TV last night. Dean pretended to watch what was left of a _Lord of the Rings _movie, but he had really been staring into space out the window into the rain.

Sam heard the old bear sigh as he wheeled out of the room and into his kitchen. Leaning against the wall that lead from the kitchen to the living room, Sam watched Dean intently. He cleared his throat.

"Dean," he began, his voice quiet and soft.

Dean didn't reply.

"Dean." Sam repeated, bolder this time but his voice raw from not speaking in days. He didn't wait for a response from his hermit-like brother. "It's been three days," a pause. "Don't you think-"

"Think what?" Came a deep, gruff voice.

"I mean, you know, since…" Sam didn't know how to phrase it. "I thought you might want to talk about it,"

Dean's green eyes dropped and and slithered toward Sam, then his head tilted slightly.

"Sam, we're not gonna have this conversation," Dean growled.

"Dean," Sam called, shifting his weight onto one leg with a sigh, his voice so desperate and upset. He stuffed his hands inside his jean pockets, tilting his head slightly and furrowing his brow and giving a Dean that puppy-dog innocent look that he gave him whenever he was upset. And he was upset. He wanted to cry. Like a baby. But he didn't. Sam knew that Dean wanted to cry, too, but both were being too strong for each other.

"I know you're not okay. I'm not okay either," he pulled his hands out of his pockets. "Can you at least talk to me?"

"Hmm." Dean grumbled.

"Look, I know how you felt about-"

"Sam!" Dean lashed out, his voice becoming louder as he turned to face his brother. "I said I'm not talkin' about it!"

He turned back around to stare out the window. Sam opened his moth to debate, but silently swallowed back his response. As Dean returned to his usual staring, so,ething strange happened. Something that didn't happen too often.

Dean blinked. And from his left eye came a a single tear that streamed down his cheek. He stood up abruptly, placing his hand over the tear and left the room in a hurry. His knuckles hardened as he pressed against the rusty screen door handle. Slamming it shut behind him, he stormed down the porch and out into the car yard.

Footsteps followed him. He whirled around to see his own Sammy standing behind him, a hurt expression on his face.

"What do you want?" Dean asked in a low voice.

"You know," said Sam silently. "You know what I want,"

"Sam, I told you I'm fine,"

"No, you're not, Dean!" Sam protested, sighing as he took a step toward his brother. Dean turned to his right, extended his left arm and rubbed the bridge of his nose with exhaustion

"Just be honest with me here, Dean. I know how you feel- and I want to help," Sam continued.

Dean turned back to face Sam. He sighed, hoping his brother would finally come out of his cocoon.

"You wanna help?" Dean asked sarcastically. "Well, that's cute,"

"I'm being serious, Dean. Ellen and Jo died and I get it- it hurts." His voice dropped lower and more quiet with a hint of soft sympathy. "And I get why it hurts more for you. Because I know how you felt about Jo."

Dean's brow furrowed with anger.

He turned around, but quickly snapped back around and whirled his arm out, his knuckles whitening as his fist balled into hardness, landing his punch squarely on Sam's nose by his right eye.

The impact sent an explosion of pain into Sam's face, sending him stumbling backward and into a nearby mangled, green 1952 Thunderbird. He covered the wounded area on his face with his right hand as the other flew back into the car to support his from falling. His vision was altered by a gray fuzziness as he saw a blackish brown color appear on his index finger.

Sam had never seen his brother hit him so hard. And there had been a long line of Dean hitting Sam, but none had been the hardest as this. He positioned himself upright to face his brother, not to hit back. But his brother had already started sledging down the slope toward the Impala, clearly not wanting to discuss the topic further.

Sam was about to follow, but a voice stopped him coming from the porch.

"You Idjits down twistin' your panties yet?" Bobby's voice yelled.

Both brothers turned to face Bobby, although Sam had more interest than Dean did.

"I gotta case for ya."


	2. Is it That Time Again?

**writeswithfeatherquills: thanks! **

**Heres the next chapter!**

Rory grumbled when he heard the alarm go off. He slammed down on the off button and clambered out of bed. Amy had woken, as well, to the sound of the blaring, discordant buzz of the clock. He slunk down the stairs with his eyes closed and fumbled his way into the kitchen. He fell back when his face slammed against something hard.

"Oww," he managed to sputter out, placing a hand on his forehead.

"Rory?" Amy's voice called. "What was that-"

She stopped in mid-sentence and groaned with annoyance. The object that her husband had managed to slam his face into was a big blue box. Without bothering to help Rory to his feet as he had sat up, he pounded her fist on the door.

"Doctor!" She snapped. "You can't keep doing this!"

The door creaked open as the sight of the old Doctor in his red bow-tie and beige jacket appeared.

"Good morning, Ponds!" he bopped Amy's nose with his index finger.

Rory was at full capacity now, on his feet and pondering why the TARDIS was parked in his kitchen. The Doctor playfully jumped out of the TARDIS and passed the Ponds, making his way to the kitchen table and swinging around to take a seat.

"So?" He pondered. "What's for breakfast?"

Amy leaned against the wall, letting out an exasperated sigh before holding her head in her palm.

"Doctor, what the _Hell _are you doing here?" Rory asked, beginning to question the Time Lord's sanity at the moment as he trailed into the kitchen and popped open the fridge door.

"I just wanted to say hello to my favorite Ponds," said the Doctor.

"How many times do I have to tell you- it doesn't work like that." Said Rory.

"Look, that's real nice of you, but you can't just keep showing up at our house when we're not expecting it!" Amy scowled, following her husband.

Amy was right. This was the fifth time that week that the Doctor barged in on them that week in the early hours of the morning.

"No, that's just it!" The Doctor replied, snapping his fingers and pointing at her. "I found something!"

He jumped out of the chair and leaped back into the TARDIS. "Come along Ponds!" His voice echoed.

"Just let me get dressed!"

* * *

><p>The Doctor leaped up the stairs on the TARDIS and bounced along to the other side of the console. "So?" He asked. "Where to?"<p>

Rory flopped down in a seat next to Amy as the Doctor started slipping switches.

"What about..." Amy began. "Pompeii."

The Doctor turned his head swiftly. "No."

"Why not?" Rory asked.

"Because I've already been there." He replied.

Amy shook her head and rolled her eyes. "You've got a time machine, haven't you been everywhere?"

The Doctor sighed and began switching controls on the TARDIS. He began typing in coordinates when the screen went blank. "Excuse you" He muttered, pressing the power button over and over again until it switched back on again. The screen turned back on again with writing printed on it. The Doctor's delicate brow furrowed with like wet laundry being wrung out. He pressed the 'delete' key as fast as he could, repeating it over and over again. The printing on the screen read:

MOTION DETECTED: CRITICAL  
>SPECIES DESCRIPTION: UNKNOWN<br>APPLICANT NAME: BOBBY SINGER

"Wha- Bobby Singer? Who the hell-" Before the Doctor could answer himself, a massive bang ripped through the TARDIS. It shook through the control panel, sending the Doctor flying toward the cold ground. He jumped up as sparks flew from the center of the TARDIS. He didn't even know what happened to the Ponds, but he did the unfortunate thing and assumed that they were alright. He heard a shout from Rory, presumably stating "What's happening" and then a yell from Amy which probably involved a swear word.

The TARDIS was flying itself. The usual _vroop vroop vroop _didn't sound the same. Several metal-like clicks and buzzes went off, beeps and rings came from the heart. Suddenly he heard a massive bang, and the whole TARDIS tilted with a wild jerk. The Doctor slammed his head back into the back of a glass fencing. His head swirled, his vision dancing. He heard voices. Voices from Amy and Rory. They called out his name, but he was too exhausted to go and see what was wrong. A bright light almost blinded him from the TARDIS doors being opened. Shadows danced throughout to white, and the Doctor blacked out.


End file.
